


From Sea to Shining Sea

by LastAmericanMermaid



Series: Oh, I Know You'll Be Back [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Feels, Fluff, Humor, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Road Trips, Sorry Not Sorry, can be read as a standalone, surprise crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:32:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastAmericanMermaid/pseuds/LastAmericanMermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of A Single Silver Thread, Bucky and Steve decide to take a trip out West. </p><p>Steve looks awful pretty spread out on ugly, cheap motel sheets.</p><p> </p><p>* This can be read with Silver Thread, or as a standalone fic. *</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Sea to Shining Sea

**Author's Note:**

> A little in-between to freshen the palate after the whopping schmoop-angst-loserfest going on in the fic that came before it. 
> 
>  
> 
> I had fun writing it, and also chuckled for a million years when inserting a small crossover surprise. 
> 
> Enjoy! ^_~

** Bucky’s List of Road Trip Souvenirs (so far) **

\-  A dirty guitar pick found inexplicably half-wedged under the light switch cover in a motel near Columbus, OH.

\-  A Chicago Bulls snapback baseball hat, for Pietro’s ever-expanding collection.

\-  A little plastic license plate keychain that says TONY with little flowers and smiley faces around it.

\-  A pair of bright red leather cowboy( _girl_ ) boots, size 6, for Darcy.

\-  A lasso

\-  A tiny, sun-bleached rodent skull from somewhere in the vast desert of New Mexico.

\-  A tiny gag box from a 50¢ vending machine in the men’s room of a seedy gas station 20 miles out from Texarkana, TX— _inside_ the box is what professes to be “ _T_ _he World’s Smallest Condom_ ,” which Bucky unrolls onto his pinkie, sending Steve into hysterics.

\- Lots and lots of assorted feathers, found outside various rest stops along the interstate.

\-  A tiny glass bottle with a tiny cork stopper, containing a sprinkle of sand, two tiny shells, and a rolled up scrap of paper that Steve makes Bucky promise not to read yet.

\-  One strip of photos from a photo booth they both crammed into at the Mall of America which features the following: one of Steve and Bucky pulling faces, one of Bucky licking Steve’s cheek, one of Steve kissing Bucky on the lips while Bucky flips the bird with his metal hand, and one of Steve doing his best Captain America face while Bucky sticks a metal finger up Steve’s left nostril.

\-  A flask shaped like a horseshoe

\-  An actual horseshoe

\-  A postcard from Hell, MI

\-  A small tattoo behind Bucky’s left ear. Don’t ask what. It isn’t hard to guess.

\-  A habañero-mango lollipop with a scorpion inside.

\-  Boxer shorts printed with little cactuses.

\-  A CD of meditative Native American flute music.

\-  A polaroid of Steve, smiling like he’s terrified, sandwiched between two dazzling Vegas showgirls.

\-  One official piece of paper that only makes legal what has _always_ been true, folded up in a neat square and tucked between the pages of Steve’s sketchbook.

\-  A plastic keycard from the motel that came after the obtaining of the official piece of paper.

\-  A bottle of the strongest, most authentic tequila they could find.

\-  An Iron Man rubber duck.

\-  A tiny music box inlaid with abalone and turquoise that plays ‘ _You Are My Sunshine_ ’ when opened, for Wanda.

\-  A bag of saltwater taffy that lasts appx. 1.5 days.

(Steve vehemently denies any such claims that he was the one to finish off the taffy. Bucky says the sticky wrappers on Steve’s side of the bed don’t lie.)

. . .

 

“You gonna stand there blockin’ my view of the tube, Rogers, or are you gonna lay down?”

 

“Huh.” Steve pretends to think about it. “I don’t know, Buck. What’s in it for me if I do?”

Bucky feels that strange heat curl through him, still so new but familiar, somehow. He cocks an eyebrow, pretends to look bored.

“Well, for starters, I won’t hafta get up and _make_ you.”

Steve’s answering grin sends sparks shooting up to Bucky’s brain, through his body.

“Oh, like you could ever ‘make’ me do anything,” Steve goads, rolling his eyes and making those dumb air-quotes with his fingers that everyone does this century.

Bucky examines the cuticles of his right hand, adopts a lofty tone and says “I dunno, Steve, seems to me like I made you do _plenty_ last night.”

And Steve, bless him, he flushes that delicious rose petal pink all over—still, even though it’s been over a yearsince they got their acts together. Bucky changes tack suddenly, eyes roaming over Steve’s half-clad form, appreciation obvious on his face.

“ _Stevie_ ,” he purrs, knowing the way his Stevie loves to hear that silky, humid lust in Bucky’s voice. “C’mere, lemme look at ya.”

Steve’s voice comes out sounding slightly strangled. “You’re already lookin’, Buck.”

“So lemme touch you, then. C’mon Stevie, wanna get my hands all over you.”

Steve all but pounces on Bucky, the cheap springs of the motel bed creaking in protest under their combined weight.

Steve’s skin is still warm from the shower he just had, and his little pink nipples stiffen when Bucky takes them, one at a time, into his mouth to swirl his tongue around.

“Gonna work you to the bone, sweetheart, no mistake,” Bucky mouths hotly against the shell of Steve’s ear, aware that it is nearly midnight and they have an early day tomorrow.

“Oh, is that so?” Steve says, a little breathlessly. Then, he looks Bucky square in the eye and doesn’t even blink, just says “ _Make me_.”

. .

 

 

They’re almost late checking out the next day, but the big, dumb smile on Steve’s face is worth it.

 

. .

 

“ _What_ is your obsession with shitty roadside museums?” Steve demands after probably the fiftteenth one Bucky makes him stop at.

His irritation is all bluster; Steve’s never been anything but glad to be anywhere Bucky wants to go, whether it’s to the World’s Largest Ball of Twine or the ( _complete ripoff_ , Steve had squawked) Mystery Spot.

When Bucky insisted they stop at what is probably the third knickknack shop in a day, Steve made a big show of sighing loudly like it’s some real hardship to give Bucky anything and everything he wants.

Not sparing Steve a glance over his shoulder, Bucky fiddles with a raccoon’s tail that’s been made into an incredibly tacky keychain.

“I dunno, I just like ‘em.” he shrugs, putting the tail back in the box he’d picked it out of. “Plus, you get this real constipated look on your face every time I drag you into one.”

“Jerk,” Steve says fondly, feeling for the millionth time that he is the luckiest guy alive.

Bucky ends up buying the raccoon tail keychain, insisting that Steve clip it to his keyring.

 

(Steve does, but only after he’s sure Bucky’s had his fill of Steve’s impassioned protesting.)

 

. .

It had taken Steve a long, long time to find himself a place in this new century where he felt he truly belonged.

It was no secret that that place had only appeared, suddenly, when he’d come into the knowledge that Bucky was _still_ _alive_.

Granted, it had been a tough road; dark, and full of thorns and hidden pit traps.

Bucky liked to point out that he’d tried to kill Steve, nearly succeeded, too. Steve liked to furrow his brow and wrap one arm tight across Bucky’s chest and counter with the fact that he hadn’t succeeded, and he’d turned right around and saved his life.

No matter how stubborn Bucky could be (and that was plenty stubborn, mind) Steve himself was infinitely more so. Eventually, Bucky had to relax his shoulders and lace his metal fingers with Steve’s flesh ones and mutter something like “And you said _I_ took all the stupid. . .”

When they get back to New York, Steve thinks that he’ll bug Bucky some more about taking college classes. Bucky’s always been sharp, sharper than Steve; it’s a damn shame they were too poor for higher education back before—well, before.

 

“You’re gonna get a crick in your neck, laying like that,” Bucky says mildly, towel-drying his damp hair in the middle of a motel room outside Joliet, IL.

They’re going to head out West on that old Historic Route 66, maybe make a couple detours along the way. Bucky likes detours; they have the zing of freedom about them.

What he really can’t wait to see, though, is the Pacific ocean.

 _California dreamin_ ’, like all those bright young things used to sing, in their flower crowns with picket signs while Bucky was no more than a weapon to be fired, and Steve was dreaming under so many feet of ice.

Bucky spent some time in California, during his time as the Soldier; he figures he ought to make some new memories there, ones where he has Steve’s big, dumb self as a central theme throughout.

“Aw, shut up.” Steve waves a hand, not shifting at all from his awkward position on the cheap bed. “Why don’t you make yourself useful? Go get some ice or something.”

Bucky snorts. “You got a bottle of something nice needs chilling, Cap?”

Steve slants his eyes at Bucky, long lashes casting shadows down his cheeks under the glow of the bedside lamp.

“Thought of something I wanna try,” he says in that shy voice he uses when he’s really being a coy little shit.

“You don’t fight fair, Rogers. Now, gimme the damn bucket.”

. .

There’s a man standing at the vending machine outside of the main building that houses the front desk and lobby, feeding crumpled ones into the cash slot and swearing each time they get pushed back out.

“Need a crisp one?” Bucky hears himself saying, already reaching for his wallet.

He still isn’t a hundred percent used to being the kind of guy who offers strangers a hand.

“Yeah, thanks, man.” The guy looks like he’s somewhere around thirty, with a crease between his eyebrows that could rival Steve’s, and big, sloe-green eyes with long lashes that don’t seem to belong on his face.

Bucky hands over his fresh dollar in exchange for the man’s bent one, notices the calluses on the man’s hands.

Calluses that come from repeated handling of firearms. Of knives.

The man buys a packet of plasticky-looking snack cakes, and a boring granola bar.

“My brother,” explains the man with an impressive eye-roll “Thinks he’s better’n me ‘cause he eats this healthy shit.”

Bucky cracks a half-smile. “You two are close, huh.”

“You get all that from one sentence worth of shit-talking?” the man sounds impressed, amused. His face has relaxed a little, and Bucky is not ashamed to admit the guy’s a real looker, even in that ratty t-shirt.

“You got the look of a long-suffering older brother,” Bucky lets his smile widen a little, enjoying the smalltalk for what it is. “I know a little of what that feels like.”

The man shakes his head, chuckling. Then, he sticks out his hand.

“Well, hey, man, thanks for the dollar. I’m De— _Dennis_ DeYoung. Good talkin’ to ya.”

“Likewise,” Bucky shakes the proffered hand with his metal one, terribly amused at ‘Dennis’s blatantly false name.

“S’quite an arm you got there, pal,” ‘Dennis’ raises his eyebrows.

“Dean, _what_ are you doing? I told you—oh, my _god_.” Another man has rounded the corner to stand next to the vending machines, taller than Thor and nearly as built.

If Bucky were even less polite than he already is, he’d whistle, low and impressed.

“You a vet?” Dean-not-Dennis pointedly ignores this new interloper, who Bucky figures is the brother with the rabbit-food agenda.

“ _Dean!_ ” hisses the tall guy, almost like a parent whose child has asked an incredibly rude, personal question without realizing it. “Oh, my _god_. I’m sorry about him.” he tells Bucky, practically radiating pained sincerity.

Bucky shrugs, feeling the whole encounter becoming inescapably awkward. He wonders distantly if Steve has fallen asleep, or if he’s still up for a little fooling around.

“It’s really no big deal,” Bucky tells the tall guy, whose cringe reminds him so much of Steve's that he has to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh.

“Dean, this is _Bucky Barnes,_ ” the tall guy says, but he says _Bucky Barnes_ the way most people say _Steve Rogers_.

He turns to Bucky, sticks out a massive hand. “Hi, I’m Sam, this is my brother Dean. He’s—I apologize for his, um, _yeah_.”

“S’alright, kid.” Bucky shakes Sam’s hand, and _jeez_ , the kid’s got a grip. “Just don’t tell nobody, huh?” He tries out his old rakish grin, the one that he can still charm everyone but Natasha and Sam with.

“ _No_ , no. Of _course_ —wait, that means that the bike in the parking lot is—”

“Steve’s pride n’ joy,” Bucky supplies with an eye-roll to rival Dean’s earlier one.

“Shit,” breathes Sam, eyes widening. “It’s—this is so surreal. It’s an _honor_ , seriously.”

Dean snorts. “Easy there, fangirl. You’re gonna give yourself palpitations.”

Sam shoots Dean a quick scowl before turning that puppy-dog look from before back on Bucky.

“I wrote a report on you in high school,” he says in a rush, like he’s embarrassed. Bucky thinks that it is probably nothing compared to his own embarrassment.

He raises both eyebrows, genuinely surprised. “Oh, yeah? Why me? Why not Captain America?”

Sam looks like he’s struggling to find something to say that will both explain his reasoning while also complimenting Steve.

“Sammy said that _Captain America_ was too much of a concept in our society, too much of the man had been, what was that bullshit? _oh_ , yeah, ‘buried under the star-spangled cloak of propaganda.’ _Christ_ , I remember that paper.” Dean is shaking his head, laughing like only an older brother can.

Bucky actually laughs out loud, the sound ringing out over the darkened parking lot.

“Oh, that’s good. I’ll bet your teachers loved that. _Star-spangled cloak of_ . . . I’m gonna have to remember that for later.”

Bucky feels warm inside and out, here at the snack machine at a cheap motel talking to two muscular strangers.

“I’m not surprised you remember it, _Dean_ , seeing as how _you’re_ the one who said that in the first place,” Sam smirks, folding his arms with a touch of smugness.

Dean colors a little at that, and his freckles stand out against the pink. “Yeah, well. I always liked Bucky better’n Cap anyway—no offense,” he adds quickly to Bucky. “He was the _real_ guy, the one you wanted to be like.”

“Not so much anymore, though.” The words have a sharp edge, and they cut Bucky’s tongue as they tumble out of his mouth.

Both Sam and Dean must have seen a whole lot of shit in their lifetimes, judging by the fine lines on their young faces, the heaviness that seems evident in the way they carry their broad shoulders. Bucky has a hunch they might, just _maybe_ , understand a little bit.

“Look,” says Sam, looking horribly earnest and Steve-ish in his expression “We—I know a little bit about—about what it’s like to . . . not be yourself for awhile.” he finishes a little awkwardly.

Dean is looking away, eyes darting across the few cars in the lot.

“When I came—when I was _me_ again, I found out that I’d done some, uh, some really bad shit,” Sam laughs humorlessly. “When you did that press conference on national television, I felt like maybe I’d been too hard on myself.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that. He never considered what his reentry to society might mean to other people with pasts that they thought they could never atone for.

Bucky is, he realizes with a start, kind of touched.

“Sam? Dean? Why have you not returned to the economically priced accommodations for the evening? The man on television says that there is going to be a big storm soon. You’ll get wet.” A shorter man in a tan trench-coat and a sort of rumpled suit is looking from Sam to Dean to Bucky, assessing with that almost blank expression that children often get.

He stares at Bucky unabashedly, blinking quizzically until something like recognition enters his round, blue eyes.

“James Buchanan Barnes, half of soulmate pairing 19167.” he recites like some kind of cheery, weird robot. “I remember following your story. Very sad. You are happier now, though? You and Steven Rogers?” he asks, tilting his head curiously.

Bucky can’t do much more than nod, feeling like he just stepped into some weirdo-alternate reality.

Honestly, the idea isn’t all that farfetched, given what’s happened to Bucky already.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean growls with no real heat, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, he does a comical double-take. “Wait, did you say ‘ _soul-mate_ ’?”

The trench-coat guy, Cas, nods encouragingly. Sam looks incredibly pained, and Bucky doesn’t know whether to crack up laughing or flee back to the room, empty ice bucket in hand.

“The pairing of Steven Rogers and James Barnes was _very_ high priority. Not quite as high as the Winchester-Campbell union, but, still, very important.”

“Cas, _please_ , shut your cakehole.” Dean sounds a little more ruffled, and Bucky is now more than a little curious what all this ‘ _soul-mate_ ’ business is about.

Then, he thinks that he’d maybe rather _not_ know anymore about it.

“Hey, fellas, take it easy,” he holds his hands up, tries to look as innocuous as possible “Howsabout we agree that I don’t ask what the hell trench-coat’s talking about, and _you_ don’t go tellin’ anyone about me n’ Steve being soul-mates.” Bucky grins lazily, bats his eyes attractively. “Least, not until we’ve made our official statement’n all.”

Sam looks mortified and relieved; Dean looks gleefully amused and relieved. Cas looks thoughtful, and also like he would like one of the snack cakes in Dean’s hand.

They say their goodbyes, shaking hands again, and then Bucky is getting his ice and traipsing back to room 212, suddenly feeling like he’ll _die_ if he doesn’t see Steve in the next thirty seconds.

 

“What’d ya do, climb through the ice machine to Narnia?” Steve says by way of greeting.

“ _Ha-ha_ , you’re hilarious.” Bucky sets the ice bucket down on the dresser. “Now, shut up and kiss me, punk.”

Steve is more than happy to oblige.

The ice melts in the bucket, and Bucky doesn’t give a shit.

 

. .

 

When they stop in Kansas, Steve and Bucky eat lunch at a tiny roadside barbecue joint, where Steve gets sauce all over himself.

“Honestly, Rogers. Can’t take you anywhere,” Bucky tsk’s, dabbing at the corners of Steve’s mouth with a WetNap.

“Quit fussin’, Buck,” Steve complains, though he doesn’t make any attempts to move away.

“I think there’s more on you than in you,” Bucky comments, tearing open the packet of a fresh towelette.

Steve smirks huge and mutters, “Funny, that’s what I thought about _you_ last night, after—”

Bucky barks out a laugh, shoves Steve hard so he can’t say anything else; Steve just cracks up because he’s always thought his jokes were way funnier than they actually are.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Stevie-boy.” Bucky wipes a streak of sticky sauce from Steve’s chin. “Where’re we stoppin’ for the night, by the way?”

Steve hums thoughtfully, scrunching his nose when Bucky scrubs at a particularly stubborn bit of barbecue sauce on his cheek. “Dunno.” he says when Bucky is done, crumpling the towelette and tossing it into the trashcan with the others. “Maybe after we cross into Colorado? We’re not too far off.”

“We gonna smoke some of those funny cigarettes I heard about in Colorado, Stevie?” Bucky asks slyly, enjoying the startled laugh it earns from Steve.

“ _Bucky_! I can’t— _we_ can’t—”

“—Save it, sweetheart. Maybe _you_ can’t, on account of that American flag you got wedged up your behind, but it would behoove you to remember that _I_ ain’t got no such condition.”

Steve just laughs helplessly, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I remember smoking a little of that stuff down at the docks, some nights when I was outta my mind worryin’ about you.” Bucky says, giving Steve one of those sidelong looks that can mean a hundred different things.

“Do I have to come with you to get it? ‘Cause I think people might talk if it came out that Captain America was buying reefer,” Steve uses the outdated slang on purpose, just to watch Bucky throw his head back and cackle.

“Reefer!” he crows. “How did I ever end up with such a square?” Bucky moans dramatically, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“I’d like to think I’m more of a rhombus,” Steve sniffs primly, and Bucky goes into convulsions again.

“You’re something, all right, pal.”

. .

They do manage to get their hands on some marijuana; the kid at the dispensary doesn’t bat an eyelash at Steve’s face or Bucky’s arm, just fixes them up with something called Cherry Pie that he says is good for pain, stress, and insomnia.

Bucky still remembers how to roll a neat cigarette, and the stuff smells sweet and sticky like candy when he takes it out of the bag.

Steve finds that it has hardly any effect on himself, but Bucky gets giggly and then handsy, pressing syrup-slow kisses to the sensitive skin of Steve’s neck.

Steve drinks a little of the Asgardian floor-cleaner he siphoned into a flask to pack for the trip, because he wants to even the playing field a little.

“Such a pretty face on you, baby,” Bucky croons, petting Steve’s cheek and gazing at him from under heavy lids. “Someone oughtta paint a picture of you like this; s’too bad I can’t draw for shit.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a girl, jerk.” Steve’s head is buzzing pleasantly, and he protests only because he knows it means Bucky will do it even more.

“Like a— _Stevie_ , you wound me.” Bucky pouts exaggeratedly, biting his lower lip the way Steve wants to bite it for him. “I’d never treat you like a girl. You’re prettier’n any girl, anyhow.”

Steve tries to turn his face away, but Bucky holds him firmly by the chin. “Look at your _eyes_ , Jesus. And that mouth _,_ like you been sucking on red candy all day.”

Steve feels himself flushing, the alcohol’s effects still not enough to dampen his persistent shyness. He tries to hide his face in his hands, but Bucky won’t let him.

“Stevie,” Bucky’s voice is all of a sudden so tender, and his eyes are unbearably fond. “How’d I get so damn lucky?”

And Steve tells him to shut up, because luck had literally nothing to do with it.

. .

 

They spend a couple of nights in the desert, staying in a shiny silver trailer they rent from a man who Bucky speaks perfect Spanish to.

The sun sets true red out in the desert, and the cacti and Joshua trees cast their pretty shadows over the still-sun warm sand. Steve sketches up a storm; his book is filled with landscapes dotted with agaves and dusty mesas, of Bucky in profile in the lawn chair outside the trailer, face angled up toward a sky packed with twinkling stars.

 

They lay out in the lawn chairs for several hours, shirtless in the arid, unfathomable heat they had not prepared for.

Steve gets a sunburn that’s bad enough to leave them both puzzled as to how the serum seems oddly useless for once, and Bucky drives the 30 miles back to the outpost for some aloe and sunblock and more gas for the bike.

Bucky tends to Steve’s angry red skin, murmuring soothing words as he gently spreads the aloe gel over the broad expanse of Steve’s back. He dabs a damp cloth soaked in ice water all over Steve’s body, and makes Steve swear that he’ll put the damn sunblock on every time steps his fool head outdoors.

(The sunburn turns into a rosy tan after a day or two; Steve is perplexed, having only ever been varying shades of milk-white or red. Bucky’s mouth goes a little dry at the sight of Steve all honeyed-gold, the blue of his eyes almost startling against it, his nose earning a whole new slew of freckles sprayed across the bridge.)

(Bucky texts a picture of tan-Steve wearing a faded blue tank top to Sam, Natasha, Darcy, Clint, and Tony with ten heart-eyed cat emojis and the message _I am a smitten kitten, send help_. Everyone must coordinate, because they each send back identical messages reading _THE STAR-SPANGLED MAN WITH A TAN_.)

Bucky, who’s always been a little swarthier than Steve, turns golden-brown, his hair lightening under the unforgiving sun. Steve remarks that when they get to California, maybe they should just stay there. He says he’d be willing to give up the shield if it meant that Bucky would walk around shirtless with that tan all the time.

Bucky responds that Steve should ask him again in a few years, for real.

. .

They take a detour through Roswell, stop at the tiny inn in Rachel, Nevada outside Area 51.

Bucky will _never_ get over the fact that he missed out on the whole UFO craze, _both_ times.

He insists that he and Steve watch the first four episodes of _The X-Files_ on Netflix Steve’s StarkPad while they lie in their motel bed with the covers kicked to the floor.

Bucky watches, enrapt, as "that classy bombshell Dana Scully" rolls her eyes and stares flatly at "that complete ignoramus Mulder" pushes conspiracy after ridiculous conspiracy.

Steve watches Bucky.

Together, they text Tony and ask him if there is an actual department in the FBI that handles X-files. For almost two days, they have him utterly convinced that he’s convinced them that it’s all based on a true story.

(Bucky laughs so hard he falls off of a bed in Reno, when Steve actually FaceTimes Tony and tells him, in his most serious voice, that after the trip, they’re going to D.C. to blow the lid off the whole operation. Tony panics and hurriedly blurts out that he was just kidding, and the look on his face when Steve and Bucky go into hysterics is _priceless_.)

 

A little green glow-in-the dark alien keychain with one hand giving a peace-sign is added without fanfare to the growing assortment of doodads jingling on Steve’s keyring.

. .

 

L.A. is too _much_. It’s too _loud_ , there are too many _people_ , and Bucky looks so blatantly terrified of stopping anywhere near the plastic circus that is Los Angeles, that Steve ends up just motoring through.

 

They eat authentic Mexican food at a tiny cantina off the highway, and Bucky averts his eyes and apologizes. Steve kicks his feet under the table and tells him there’s nothing to apologize for, and that is that.

 

It’s a long way up the Golden State, and there are plenty of places Bucky does want to stop.

They buy a bag of fruit from a roadside stand and eat it in their motel room, sticky juice dribbling down their chins and staining their fingers, kissing to chase the sweetness of the fruit on each other’s tongues.

 

They make it up, all the way up, to the Bay Area, and Bucky gets more and more impatient the closer they get to the ocean.

Steve sheepishly flashes his Avengers ID and slides his credit card across the front desk at a little inn in picture-pretty Sausalito, paying for a room for four nights and hushing Bucky’s outraged noise at the price.

It’s still so new, so novel to Steve that they can walk down the sidewalk hand in hand without anyone getting in their business or sneering in disgust.

Steve smiles bashfully across a table in a restaurant with a gorgeous view of the bay, dressed in a nicer button-down than usual. Bucky eats all the bread and flirts with the waiter.

It’s perfect.

 

 

They drive into the headlands and see what used to be an old Army base, the buildings now turned into studios and hostels.

 

 

They watch children splashing in and out of the surf on rocky Rodeo Beach, the view of the Golden Gate Bridge unobscured by fog.

 

 

They drive up to Mount Tamalpais and hike the trail, saying nothing for most of it and just drinking in all the nature two city boys could ever dream of.

 

Bucky gets his tattoo in a little shop in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, grinning smugly at Steve, whose skin rejects tattoo ink due to his rapid rate of healing.

Steve sends everyone a picture of the tattoo tucked behind Bucky’s left ear, shining with ointment and still red around the edges. He laughs out loud when Sam texts back not two seconds later with ‘ _like we needed anymore proof of your upsetting yen for bad boys *eyeroll*_ ’

 

Bucky puts money in the cups and palms of every single homeless person they walk past through the Tenderloin district, and Steve doesn’t say a word. He also doesn’t say a word when Bucky catches the eye of a young, bedraggled man with a sign that says _VETERAN HOMELESS PLEASE HELP_ , and thanks him for his service and asks if there’s anything he can do to help.

 

(They end up walking him to a VA shelter, where Bucky slips the kid a roll of bills thinking Steve isn’t watching. Steve doesn’t say anything then, either. He squeezes Bucky’s hand so tight, though, all the way to Golden Gate Park.)

 

. .

 

The lighthouse at Point Reyes is like something out of a painting.

It’s colder up there, damp and salty like somewhere in the UK, overcast sky above formidable grey-green waves.

There are a million stairs to get down to the lighthouse, and Bucky keeps stopping to take pictures on his phone every ten steps or so, claiming that the view is _different_ from each point, so shut _up_ ,  _Steve_. 

When they’re done at Point Reyes, they drive down to Drake Beach and lay on a blanket and eat food they packed earlier.

The sky from down on the beach is as blue as anything, blue as Steve’s eyes, and the yellow-gold sand is hot on top but cool when they dig their toes in.

Bucky runs out into the waves like he’s a wild kid again, yelping because the water is cold, and Steve stands at the edge with foam lapping over the tops of his bare feet.

The beach is almost totally empty, apart from one family with a dog and an old woman in a wide-brimmed hat with a pail in her hand and walking stick in the other.

Steve lets Bucky slather possibly too much sunblock all over him, and they lie side by side on their sandy blanket, dozing a little under the mid-afternoon sun.

 

Steve laughs himself sick when they get back to the hotel and Bucky realizes that he’s got tan-lines in the shape of a rectangle in the middle of his chest, where he’d fallen asleep with his StarkPhone resting on it.

 

. . .

On their last day, Bucky tells Steve that it’s been fun, but that he’s ready to go home.

Steve beams huge and feels his heart swell to bursting.

They buy two plane tickets and a bigger suitcase to cram their stuff into, and Steve says he’ll have Tony send someone to get the bike later.

Bucky sleeps the whole way, face mashed into Steve’s shoulder.

. .

After they’ve slept off the jet-lag, they get everyone into the common area of the tower to dole out souvenirs.

Darcy shucks her ratty sneakers in favor of the red boots, striking poses and clicking her heels together.

Pietro grins and puts the Bulls hat on, which Sam gives two thumbs up and a pleased nod.

“Remind me to show you my Bulls ’96 Championship DVD,” he says with shining eyes.

Bucky hands him the horseshoe flask and tells him meaningfully that he understands how hard it is for Sam to be the only sane person in the Tower.

Sam nods earnestly in agreement.

 

“What’d ya bring me?” Tony saunters in fifteen minutes later, covered in grease marks up to his elbows.

Bucky hands him the little license plate and the cactus-print boxers. “Because you’re such a prick,” he deadpans.

Tony cracks up, and the others groan.

 

 

Clint gets the lasso, obviously, and he gleefully starts practicing right away, trying to rope anything and everything.

 

Wanda loves her music box, and Thor cracks open the tequila at _eleven in the morning_ , to everyone’s horror, and takes a hearty swig.

 

“Sweets for the sweet,” Bucky offers Natasha the scorpion lollipop with a little flourish and bow, and she smiles prettily for half a second before demanding to see pictures.

Bucky presents Bruce with the CD of meditation flute music while Tony is distracted, and the genuine gratitude on Bruce's face makes Bucky feel like maybe he did something right for a change. 

There are lots of _aww’_ s at the photo-booth strip, and a lot of the nature shots turned out pretty damn good.

Steve hangs back and lets Bucky do most of the talking, butting-in only to ruffle his feathers or when he’s outright lying just to see what he can get the others to swallow.

Everyone loves the picture of Steve with the showgirls so much, Tony ends up making copies, and Bucky isn’t surprised at all when it ends up on the internet.

. .

 

At night, in their bed, with its plain sheets and fluffy pillows, suitcases lying open on the floor with clothes and assorted detritus spilling out, Bucky presses a tender, slow kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“Steven Barnes,” he says dopily, rolling the words around in his mouth like a sweet.

“Buck Rogers,” Steve giggles, then kisses him quiet.

And then Bucky’s on top of Steve, and they become a tangle of sweat and limbs and sighs, and then Steve rolls them over and moves down Bucky’s body, swallowing down Bucky's cock and digging his thumbs into Bucky’s hips.

 

And Bucky just says, reverently and filthy and perfect, “God _bless_ America,” and Steve, bless his soul, just smiles and keeps on with his work.

 

 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> <3 
> 
>  
> 
> Stay tuned for the upcoming Darcy/Pietro fic from this 'verse, working title: "Darcy Lewis Can't Lose"


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